


Pater Noster

by Wicked_Seraph



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Altar Sex, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, M/M, Modern Era, Priest Kink, Rimming, Sebastian Is A Demon Of Course It's Dubious, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24512614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked_Seraph/pseuds/Wicked_Seraph
Summary: Vincent never thought to ask why Ciel arrived earlier to Mass each Sunday.If he didn’t know better, Vincent would have thought the boy was going on a date; he seemed a little too excited for someone singing hymns and eating stale Communion wafers, but if puppy love is what kept his son well-groomed, out of trouble and inside the Lord’s home, then all the better.Better to let Ciel still trust Father Michaelis.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 16
Kudos: 208





	Pater Noster

Vincent never thought to ask why Ciel arrived earlier to Mass each Sunday.

For months, the boy had been sullen and distant in a way that, though expected, still unsettled him. Remembering his own adolescence and the confusing turbulence that translated into silence, he felt it wiser to keep his distance; Ciel, in his own way, was dictating boundaries, and it would be disastrous to violate them. 

He and Rachel had stopped attending Mass, always finding an excuse technically honest enough to lighten how bitterly guilt sat on their tongues. The Matriarch of the family, however, would never suffer Ciel to skip Mass — and so he went, trailing dutifully after his grandmother with a barely-suppressed scowl.

He hated them for it. Vincent could almost hear the cacophonous diatribe the boy bit back. He never failed to marvel how someone so small and frail could look so venomous, even while buckled into the backseat of his grandmother’s sedan.

At some point, however, the boy had begun to go willingly, almost always waking well before his alarm sounded. Ciel, who could barely match his socks or comb his hair, actually began to fuss over it, wearing some of the cologne he’d received on his thirteenth birthday.

If he didn’t know better, Vincent would have thought the boy was going on a date; he seemed a little too excited for someone singing hymns and eating stale Communion wafers, but if puppy love is what kept his son well-groomed, out of trouble and inside the Lord’s home, then all the better.

How many fathers could say that their son attended Mass every Sunday — by choice, no less?

Ciel never asked him to start going back to church and only answered brusquely when asked about how Mass went — “fine” or “the same as usual”. He looked forward to going to church, but seemed remarkably private about whatever impact it was having on him, lacking any desire to evangelize.

_Teenagers,_ Vincent reasoned. It was better this way; it meant the boy was unlikely to think too deeply about his parents’ aversion to the church.

Better to let him think that it was mere disinterest in the Eucharist and songs more familiar than his own heartbeat. Better to let the boy remain ignorant that the mere sight of a crucifix and church bells made his father’s heart race.

Better to let Ciel still trust Father Michaelis. 

After all, he was probably only imagining things; Phantomhives were not known for restful sleep or charitable imagination, their lives often cut short by an overtaxed heart if they were lucky enough to dodge knives, guns, or poisons. He wouldn’t be the first person to imagine fangs or cloven hooves.

“Besides,” he muttered, fingers clenched. “A demon could never wear a cassock.”

* * *

Ciel wasn’t sure whether to feel gratitude or secondhand embarrassment for his father’s naivete.

He was trying his best, in that infuriatingly earnest way of his. The curiosity radiated off of him, a thousand unspoken questions condensing into a suffocating miasma that made it damn near impossible to breathe. 

_Why are you so eager to go to church? Does it really mean that much to you?_

_Do you know what they say about Father Michaelis?_

Of course he knew.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew that his father detested Father Michaelis; he hid his discomfort poorly, mouth twitching in displeasure when the priest met his eyes. The boy knew what the congregation said about its leader: “he wears the cassock a little too well”.

An implication with all the incredulity of a murderer draped in a judge’s robes.

It was what people  _didn’t_ say that piqued his curiosity, the unspoken suspicion and distrust woven into a fiber taut enough for the priest to fasten his robes with. 

_There’s something vulgar about him_ , one of the old ladies murmured. 

Something indeed. Ciel’s mouth watered with the knowledge.

Father Michaelis conducted Mass perfectly, but  there was an odd aura of mockery to it; a smirk always lingered around his lips, the laughter never quite leaving his eyes, as if sharing a private joke. No one dared hold his gaze too long — and why would they? No one liked jokes with an incomprehensible punchline. Ciel knew he ought to have felt offended by the priest’s wicked humor — a priest mocking God in his own home should have alarmed him.

It shouldn’t have thrilled him. He shouldn't have met the Father’s blatantly curious smile with one of his own. He knew he was playing at something dangerous, consenting to a game with unknown rules and penalties.

And yet — 

And yet — 

A small prick along the lobe of his ear —  _teeth?_ — dragged Ciel from his own thoughts.

“Is everything alright?” Father Michaelis asked. 

“You tell me,” Ciel drolled, biting his lip as he felt the priest’s cold hands slide under his shirt. 

There was nothing alright about a boy splayed across an altar,  drunk on the Blood of Christ and bad decisions, thin legs wrapped the priest’s hips. He wasn’t sure why he did so, but the amused chuckle Father gave in reply told him that this was the correct choice; the fingers trailing up his chest lingered, flicking at the sensitive flesh straining against the fabric. Before he could stop himself a startled gasp escaped him, barely more than a squeak.

“Ah, so you _do_ like it,” the priest purred, pinching and teasing curiously. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Think of it as yet another gift of the flesh.”

A small snort of derision, warped into a soft whimper as the pressure on his nipples intensified; it was an odd sensation, the pleasure seeming to blossom in his stomach rather than where Father Michaelis touched him. “A ‘gift of the flesh’. Do you think God would approve of me using his ‘gifts’ like this?”

Rhetorical. Asking such questions was a vapid kind of foreplay, but  the priest enjoyed posturing as keenly as the boy enjoyed affectations of innocence.

A moment’s pause; the priest lifted the boy’s shift, replacing clever fingers with a wicked tongue and teeth eager to claim. Ciel squirmed wildly as Father Michaelis nibbled, teeth grazing just firmly enough to pepper his skin with goosebumps.

“If God objected, I dare say he wouldn’t permit it in his house.”

“Is that how you excuse it, Father?”

Pleasure bordering on pain, Father Michaelis’s teeth pressed deeper into the nub, just bordering on cruelty. “A curious question from someone who only ever addresses me as ‘Father’ when we—”

Ciel pressed a hand to the priest’s mouth, cursing the loss of contact as he pushed him away. “Only because I don’t have anything else to call you.”

“My given name — or rather,  _your_ given name — would be a good place to start.”

_Easier said than done_ . 

One of the things that had drawn suspicion to the priest in the first place was a lack of Christian name; he simply took over the parish as “Father Michaelis,” and any attempts to glean more information was met with a blessing and smile that seemed to devour God’s light rather than exude it.

“It’s bad enough to be doing this,” Ciel murmured. “To call you ‘Father’ feels… weird.”

_It feels_ **_wrong_** , his conscience supplied weakly.

“Does it, now? Very well. As I have no ‘Christian name’ of my own, you may call me whatever you please.”

“So if I were to name you after, let’s say… my dog, you would accept it?” the boy asked, words broken by a muffled groan as the priest learned forward to taste the challenge on his lips. 

“If you wish to scream the name of your dog, that’s entirely your prerogative,” Father Michaelis replied, eyes darkening with amusement. “How charming that you’d replace one sin for another.”

“That’s rich, coming from a demon,” Ciel snarled, voice melting into a wretched whimper; against his nipples, traveling lower, the priest’s tongue left a trail of frayed nerves and fire in its wake.

"Call me ‘Father’ or call me ‘Sebastian;’ it makes no difference,” he sneered.

Ciel’s eyes, heavy-lidded, snapped open. “How do you know—?”

Sebastian’s fingers covered his mouth while his own sucked at the boy’s navel. “Don’t spoil the fun. Isn’t it better not to know?”

There were a thousand things Ciel wanted to say in reply, half of them questions he knew would only fruit into more questions; all of them withered as quickly as they formed. It was impossible to think past the brush of fingers as his belt and pants were unfastened, past the flicks of Sebastian’s tongue against his navel. It felt like all the heat in his body was pooling between his thighs, as though gathering specifically for Father — for Sebastian — to sample it.

“Se… Sebastian—” he cried.

The priest laughed quietly, his breath seeming to caress the pale hairs, softer than peach fuzz, guiding his mouth downward. “Is there something you want?”

“I—”

“It aches, doesn’t it?” he asked sweetly, gently guiding the boy’s garments down to his spread knees. “I can see how much this agonizes you."

“Then bloody  _do_ something about — !!”

His words were quickly swallowed and forgotten as  _something_ mind-numblingly wonderful happened between his legs.  He dared not look, eyes clenched shut as he turned his head away from Father Michaelis, away from the crucifix above watching them defile its sanctuary.

Wet heat, slicker and tighter than his dreams, engulfed him, Sebastian’s tongue wrapping around his shaft as though savoring it, drawing him further in. A shimmering, promising tension built in his cock, making his toes curl; something violent bubbled inside him, screaming for an exit.

“Se-Sebastian,” he gasped, breaths ragged. Sebastian’s mouth was perfect — almost — and yet — he needed… _something_ _(tighter,_ _faster, better)_. Something more, something he couldn’t name, but in a fit of instinct he thrust his tiny hips forward, seeking more of the tight heat of Sebastian’s mouth. The priest laughed, more a rumble than anything; the vibration sent a jolt of pleasure straight through him, and before he could stop himself he jerked forward, deeper, fingers tangling in the demon’s hair. Sebastian swallowed around him, smirking as though daring him to test his courage.

The few times he’d been the one on his knees, he found it nearly impossible to wrap his lips around the demon’s arousal, sobbing with the agony of trying to breathe around a cock sheathed in his throat . But Sebastian seemed to face no such difficulties, sucking Ciel as easily as if he’d proffered his tongue instead, cheeks hollowing as if to tease him. 

How easily he could do this forever, using Sebastian’s mouth with all the mercy of a spit-slicked palm; the savage joy churning in his gut yearned for it. Though he knew not why, something primal told him that it would be far more satisfying finish there than waste his pleasure on hands cupped in supplication or a clerical robe.

“Greedy today, aren’t you?” Sebastian said, slowly pulling away from Ciel — intentionally, the boy thought, just before the mounting tension snapped. His heart hammered painfully beneath his ribs, his breaths short and uneven. 

He expected Sebastian to finish him with his tongue or calloused hands, as he often did; he had not expected the priest to pull him closer on the altar, propping his legs up and licking at the tender space at the back of his thighs, inching closer towards his target.

“Do you trust me?” Sebastian asked, nipping lightly at the pert, fleshy mound. To the boy’s chagrin, his question was met with a shameless moan, his cock painfully hard and flushed between his legs.

“I… I’m not sure,” he stammered, suddenly feeling very small and uncertain.

“Have I done anything to violate your trust?”

“N-No, but —“

“I have no interest if you’re unwilling. This ends the moment you wish it.”

“Wouldn't you enjoy it more if I put up a fight?” Ciel asked. “Don’t you demons enjoy a challenge?”

“We do,” he replied serenely. “I would be lying if I said that I didn’t enjoy the thrill of a particularly elusive hunt.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Sebastian’s eyes seemed a bit more crimson, a bit more inhumanly bright, backlit by centuries of festering hunger. 

Seeming to notice the boy’s alarm, Sebastian pressed a plaintive kiss against the inside of his thigh, unable to quell the urge to bite just firmly enough to thrill.

“I prefer honesty. Humans are terribly good at lying; anyone can claim they don’t want something until they believe it. But you, my little master,” he said, pausing to run a hot, wet tongue along the cleft of the boy’s ass, lapping his hole just long enough to make him shiver. “You know what you want, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” Ciel said, head falling back as he widened his legs, sighing heavily as Sebastian sucked somewhere far more sensitive, far more private. The sensation was strange; despite the temptation to slam his legs shut — to hide such an inherently filthy place,  where good boys didn’t let their priest touch them — the way Sebastian kissed him so earnestly, wanting to lick and taste all of him, made it difficult to think on anything but how  _good_ it felt.

“You do,” the demon confirmed; though Ciel couldn’t see his face, his tone suggested a smile. “You asked me to teach you, and so I have. Fear is natural, but what I suspect you feel is shame.”

“Of course I do,” Ciel gasped, gritting his teeth as Sebastian continued his ministrations; he could feel something else amidst the heat and wet — fingers, kneading his flesh, tracing idle paths where the demon’s tongue had been.

“Don’t. Gods and priests may chastise you. But this house is _mine_ ” — lush silence, punctuated by a Ciel’s small cry, dissolving into a moan, as a single slick digit entered him — "and we shall do as we please within its walls.”

Ciel gripped the edges of the altar helplessly as Sebastian worked his fingers, thrusting and spreading them as gently, as slowly, as his pleasure allowed. He could feel urgency in the demon’s sublime patience, as though finally tasting a dessert he had no intention to rush.

The boy had read about this act before, had heard about it whispered between snickers in a locker room every time someone was too friendly with a teacher or older student.

He had expected pain — would have welcomed it — and was thus wholly unprepared for the terror of melting, suspended in his own delirium. Pain provided a skeleton, some kind of barrier behind which to hide — a scrap of modesty. 

Sebastian, damn him, had left him with no such gift — only the horror of his own lust, naked as Adam biting into the crisp flesh of an apple, helpless to do anything but rock and thrust and take, take, take. He was little more than a gutter, a yawning chasm of jagged edges that wanted to be filled; it felt as though all of his awareness centered on Sebastian's fingers — two? three? he hadn’t the slightest clue when he’d added more — filling him, grazing something sweet and hidden.

It was easy to forget that the light pressure against his back was the corner of a holy book, and that altars were made for books and chalices and snow-white candles flickering solemnly. They were not designed to support the weight of a boy with his knees spread for the devil; the structure creaked in warning with every rock of his hips.

Too soon, Sebastian’s fingers were gone — as with everything he did, always at the exact wrong moment. It was a visceral kind of ache, to be carved and molded for the demon’s pleasure; he felt himself twitch and clench with the loss, hating himself for it, hating Sebastian more.

_How humiliating, to feel pleasure so deeply, buried in your skin._

“Will you stop—“

Ciel’s breath caught when something much broader and hotter followed the same path the demon’s tongue and fingers had. It wasn’t difficult to determine the source of that velvet heat.

He wanted to argue, to scream, to refuse. That would have been the correct thing to do.

The “correct thing to do’ had long since been a foregone conclusion; he’d abandoned it the moment he saw the priest’s fangs and wondered what it would be like to run his tongue along them, to feel how heavy and thick his cock, hidden behind that joke of a cassock, might feel in his hands.

How it might feel nestled within his hollow, just as greedy as he was.

“Is there something you want?” the priest asked, voice rich with venom; he hid his fangs poorly, eyes bright and scarlet as large hands spread the boy’s cheeks just enough to allow his cock to slide deeper between them. Ciel could feel the head pressed against his entrance, teasing, driving him mad.

Nothing but consonants and vowels dribbled out of his mouth; Sebastian pressed in slowly, cruelly, forcing him to feel the way his treacherous body welcomed it, fitting around the demon’s cock like a sleeve. 

Millimetre by agonizing millimetre. Sebastian allowed the unanswered question to linger, fragrant and heady, as he thrust into him, lids fluttering shut as he felt Ciel unravel around him like a flower.

_Is there something you want?_

Of course he wanted something — he couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t. 

Instead Ciel swore quietly under his breath, hands gripping Sebastian’s forearms. “Oh God,” the boy groaned, chanted, as Sebastian spread and claimed him, silent save the lewd, slick percussion of the demon’s cock working its way deeper, impossibly hot. 

“God, yes—”

Sebastian’s hips stilled — only for a moment, but long enough for a small flare of alarm to wrap itself around his heart.

“What did you just say?”

“Just an expression.” Ciel’s voice was dew and honey, breathy and boyish and maddening.

"Does it thrill you, to call out God's name while being pleasured by one of his rejects? How eagerly you spit on his hospitality."

Ciel's eyelids fluttered, struggling to string together a coherent thought, not sure if "his” referred to God or the devil. Sebastian was all-consuming, around him and in him, suffocating pleasure now threaded with agony; trying to parse his meaning felt like plucking a feather from molasses.

“I… what?"

Sebastian's claws tightened around his hips, pricking dangerously at his flesh. "The Lord opens His home to those who seek succor, and you respond to such charity by defiling yourself with a demon. You sink into the role of the depraved adulteress entirely too well."

_So that’s what it is: he thinks I’m in denial._

Sebastian's cruelty found his weakness over and over, sending a thousand fireworks of pleasure arcing along his spine; it was all he can do to stifle his wanton praise, though the way his legs spread — the way his body coaxed Sebastian’s deeper — left little room for doubt. 

"Wh-what would — ah! — you have me do?"

Sebastian stilled — not completely, but enough to allow Ciel to feel each inch as he withdrew; the boy couldn’t stop the low whine in his throat as he felt emptiness where heat once filled him.

"Scream for me,” he whispered, breath hot against his ear. “Show me — show God — that this is how you truly are: depraved. Debauched." 

Terrible, this arrogance; only a demon could compare himself to a god without qualms. Toothsome and acrid, and Ciel lapped at it, eager to taste the kind of avarice and pride reserved for those with crumpled wings and cloven hooves.

This was easier. No need to think, to rationalize, to string together syllables while he gasped and moaned gracelessly; Sebastian’s name would be an anchor while his body thrashed to and fro among the waves like driftwood. Too small, too ripe for such pleasures — but that had never stopped him. 

“Sebastian,” he begged, tremulous, thinner than rice paper; desire twisted hot and serpentine in his gut. He felt his hole twitch and wanted to sob with the frustration of it.

“Hm?”  Sebastian held the cruel instrument in his hand, tapping and running his own lust along the boy’s arse and hole as though he owned them, as though he had all the time in heaven and hell to claim it at his leisure. The boy was a treat to be savored, wasn’t he?

_This house is ours, and we shall do as we please._

And so the priest did, granting bliss incremental, thrusting shallowly; Ciel grit his teeth and rocked his hips, face aflame.

“Sebastian,  _please—”_

“Good boy,” he whispered as he fully sheathed himself, running his fingers through Ciel’s hair with an odd expression that made the coiled heat in the boy’s stomach unfurl and the corners of his eyes burn. 

Too close to affection, too warm, but he couldn’t help it; Ciel reached for the demon, bringing their lips together in an artless clash of teeth and tongue, whimpering quietly as he felt a delicious, familiar kind of numbness trickle throughout his veins with every snap of Sebastian’s hips.

A hungry mouth that tasted like heme and wine, claiming his voice and pleasure, plucking the boy’s cries like so many petals from a quaking flower. For a deranged moment, it felt as though Sebastian was  _swallowing_ them, throat working as though taking in something gelatinous and unknowable. 

He felt something break, vision dyed black behind his eyelids.

“Mm — Sebastian—!”

Ciel came with a sharp cry, fingers white-knuckled as he gripped the edge of the altar. And there it was — Sebastian was definitely  _swallowing_ something,  _drinking_ something, pulling away from his lips with the rapturous gasp of a man parched. The demon thrust erratically, careful rhythm devolving into selfish staccato — as though the sustenance itself was what drove him towards completion. The boy wondered if the warmth he felt flood him had anything to do with what the priest had devoured from him.

Ciel’s limbs were terribly heavy, leaden and dense with lethargy. He could feel his lust cool on his stomach; disgusting, but he found it impossible to lift his hands, much less clean the offending puddle.

This, at least, was familiar; the drunken after-pleasure, drifting off to sleep while the priest lapped at the seed coating his stomach like milk.

These were the moments where poison settled, bilious and thick against his throat like stale vomit; even while nursing the saccharine gold of pleasure, that ever-present poison was sharper than ozone. 

Sentimental, perhaps, to yearn for warmth, for shared body heat instead of a forked tongue stealing what few drops of pleasure he hadn’t supped straight from the boy’s lips. Crude, to feel the void where Sebastian had been so fiercely, but a childish, mewling thing inside him rankled from the loss. 

He didn’t like to think about how much the priest seemed to enjoy watching this shift of hue and flavor; even now, he could feel the heat in Sebastian’s gaze, malevolent and curious.

“Rest, little one,” the priest purred softly — and if those slow, appraising licks seemed full of intent and kindling, Ciel felt it easier to let the matter pass.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and constructive critique are always welcomed! ♥


End file.
